Prelude
by ni-sofya
Summary: 1887- While working a string of mysterious murders, Inspector Gregson of Scotland Yard goes missing. It is up to Lestrade to unravel the threads, but doing so may lead to both unexpected and dangerous results.
1. Chapter 1

**PRELUDE TO THE FUGUE**

**.**

_...Gregson doesn't make any documentable appearances after Holmes's hiatus that ended in 1894. He is the first detective in the Canon to summon Holmes. He is Scotland Yard's smartest in Holmes's opinion, and the two men get along wonderfully. Which leads one to wonder why Holmes was working with Lestrade alone at the time of "The Final Problem." We see Gregson investigating organized crime in REDC and suddenly he's gone in FINA, a tale of Holmes's biggest battle against organized crime. Might Gregson have been killed by Moriarty during the late 1880s? -'Sherlock Peoria'_

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_**I.**_

_London  
__1887_

The last time Inspector Lestrade sees his friend and colleague alive is late on a Saturday afternoon in April, when they are both seated in the back corner of a dark and dirty public house in East London and Gregson happens to mention he's been _followed_ of late.

They're not here to drink, they're here to talk, and so the two pints of porter on the table are still full to the brim, froth dribbling over the glass rims and pooling on the tabletop. Everyone speaks quietly here, conspirationally, plotting revolution and felony and God knows what else. If Lestrade were on duty, he'd have arrested half the patrons by now.

But he's not. And there's only one conversation he's giving his full attention to, and that is the one he's currently engaged in.

"Followed?" he says gravely, leaning forward. "Why? Does it have to do with that case you're working, that string of murders?"

"I haven't the slightest idea. But I thought I should tell you. You know nearly as much about the whole affair as I do."

"Have you informed anyone else? Have you told the super?"

Gregson chuckles morosely. "I highly doubt it's worth bringing up with him quite yet. But you, I worried you might…" He runs one hand through his hair. He's gotten thinner of late, the result of too many late nights and not enough meals in between. "Nothing has happened to you, am I right?"

"Well, no, but… What do you mean, exactly, when you say you've been 'followed'?" Lestrade asks.

"It's always one person," Gregson explains. "Not sure if it's the _same_ person each time, mind, I've never been able to get all that close a look at them. Generally, it's in the evenings, when I head home from the office."

"Keep their distance, do they?"

"I've ever seen 'em closer than fifty yards." Gregson twists his hands nervously and tries his best to smile, for Lestrade's sake. "Funny, this."

"Don't see me laughing, do you?" The porter is starting to look awfully appealing at the moment. Lestrade finally wraps one hand around his glass, the condensation making his fingers slide, and takes a small sip. He wipes the foam from his lip with the back of his hand and closes his eyes with a small, barely satisfied sigh. "I'm not going to bid you be careful, because you will do so on your own account." One wary eye opens again. "Correct?"

Gregson chuckles and throws some spare change onto the table, getting to his feet with a small grunt. "I should get going," he declares. "It's been weeks since I've caught more than three hours of sleep in one go, and I fully intend to dedicate my entire evening to the enterprise."

One more swallow of the lukewarm porter and Lestrade stands as well. They are, without a doubt, the first patrons of the bar in years to step out the front door fully sober.

The sun has already begun to set, casting a dull red glow the color of dried blood that leaks over the rooftops and factory smokestacks. The air is still cold, spring not having quite arrived, and so Gregson walks quickly, taking comfort in the light pit-pat of Lestrade's footsteps behind him. They move down the small side-road quietly; it is not until they've almost reached the main that Gregson turns and casts a hollow look at his partner.

"Lestrade," he says, quietly, as if the walls have ears, "Lestrade, _I've found something_."

"Pardon?" Lestrade freezes, his low, even breathing visible in the form of small bursts of steam.

"While I was investigating. I found something—someone, rather—and it's a matter of grave importance, I can feel it. Everything… Well. I'm afraid I cannot tell you now, not until I'm certain. But I believe this is why I'm being shadowed."

Lestrade blinks rapidly, five times in quick succession. "Do what you need to do," he mutters. "Just don't go around inviting trouble to your door. Dig yourself into a ditch and nine chances from ten I'm the one who ends up digging you out. "

"I would never wish such an ill upon you, Lestrade." Gregson manages to smile. It almost reaches his eyes. Lestrade nods tersely and the two of them proceed, albeit slightly slower, savoring the normalcy, as if they know.

(Oh, but they couldn't possibly. You see, it's all supposed to be a jolly big surprise.)

At the main road, Lestrade starts to turn left, only to see that Gregson is not following him. "How now! Your home's thataway," he shouts.

"Oh. Well, I've only just remembered… There's something that needs taking care of. Back at the office." Gregson laughs. "You're well acquainted with my absentmindedness, I'm sure. I shall see you on Monday," he promises.

Lestrade nods and watches Gregson grow smaller and smaller as the distance between them widens—watches until the other man rounds a corner and is gone. Lestrade waits where he stands for a few brief moments, then turns and trudges slowly towards home, an eerie, ugly sensation curling in the pit of his stomach.

**.**

"It is incurable, I'm afraid."

The sitting room of Baker Street resembles, for once, more an actual living space and less a storage unit for old papers. Mainly due to the fact that its two habitual occupants have been gone for the past three weeks.

"A foul disease is this!" A door slams shut. "Utterly inescapable, its grip as tight as the constricting power of a python, its symptoms—"

"As usual, Holmes, you make far too large a deal out of nothing," Watson chirps, his expression wavering between amused and annoyed.

Holmes collapses into a heap upon the settee, a scowl on his angular features. "A pox!" he declares. "A pox upon me! The wretched, revolting, _greusome_ plague of—"

"A _mild_ onslaught of ennui has never killed anyone before, Holmes." Watson snaps his newspaper open and settles down in his armchair. "If you must wallow in boredom, at least be proactive about getting yourself out of it. Haven't you a monogram to be researching?"

"Pah! Research. Only for the lesser minded individual. The truly intelligent know without combing through the mediocre works of others." Flipping onto his stomach, Holmes proceeds to bury his nose into a throwpillow and inhale deeply. "Oh, my dear Watson, but four days home and already I pine for some activity to engage my brain."

The newspaper gives a small crinkle of protest as Watson sets it down and folds it neatly over his knee. "Holmes, do be reasonable," he says. "You were very ill for quite some time. It was only fair that I suggested—"

"Dictated!"

"—suggested, my dear Holmes, that you _rest._ Is that really too much to ask?"

"My _brain_, Watson!"

"It's your body I'm worried about. Stop griping, you will thank me later."

"Does tomorrow constitute as 'later'? Because I shall still loathe you for this in twenty-four hours, you mark my words." Holmes stretches languidly, arms dangling over one end of the settee and feet hooking over the other. "Oh, for a case…"

There's a sharp knock on the door. With a quiet moan of resignation and another crackle of the paper, Watson gets to his feet and walks across the room, his tread for once unimpeded by stacks of files upon the floor. He opens the door and looks down to see Billy standing in the hall, an envelope in his hand.

"Good afternoon, Doctor," the boy says, smiling. "Letter for you."

"Thank you. Run along and ask Mrs. Hudson when dinner will be ready, there's a good lad." Billy nods; moments later, the sound of his rapid footsteps resounding off the stair floods the sitting room. Then there comes distant shouting.

"Missus Hudsooon! Missus Hudsooon! Doctor Watson wants to know…"

The small voice fades to inaudible mumbling. Watson returns to his armchair and sets to opening the envelope, pulling out the letter, and scanning its contents. In the brief time it takes to engage in these three actions, Holmes has managed to vacate the settee, sprawl himself on the rug in front of Watson's chair, and mutter, "Can you curse a pox upon a pox, I wonder?"

"Do be quiet, Holmes."

"Perfectly valid question, Watson. What does the letter say?"

"It is from a friend of mine, a colonel. He's asking for us to stay at his estate." Watson flips the paper over to check for further writing; there is none. "He lives in Surrey; perhaps this would be a good opportunity for you to leave the city, reclaim some of your health."

"Mmmmmnnngggguh."

"It would give you something to do."

Holmes sits up and holds out a slender hand for the letter, which Watson reluctantly hands over. Three seconds later and the paper is back in Watson's lap, tossed there by a disinterested Holmes.

"Surrey—What does one do there, exactly?" he groans.

"Recuperation." Watson brandishes the letter about. "Holmes, this could be just what you need. By the time we return, you shall be whole and hale and ready to take on every crime that London has to offer."

Holmes is silent for nearly five minutes time. Watson spends the interim perusing the rest of his newspaper, skimming over announcements of marriage and news of an incident in Schnaebele on the Continent. By the time he's reached the agony columns, Holmes has flipped over where he lies and is grumbling something altogether incoherent into the rug.

"I'm sorry, my dear fellow, what was that?"

"I said I'll _go._" Holmes' expression is priceless—an amalgamation of petulant five-year-old and young, spurned lover. "But by God, if anything happens in London while we are away, I am holding you accountable."

Watson raises his eyebrows and returns to the paper, another small victory won. "Oh, trust me, my dear Holmes," he mumbles. "Nothing interesting could possibly happen in this city in _your _absence."

**.**

Headquarters are silent, a normal state for Saturday evenings. Gregson enters through the unlocked back doors—for a police station, the building has terribly lax security—and goes straight to his office.

Lestrade mustn't know, nobody must know, that's the key. He's a good enough liar to have gotten away with it thus far. It's a terribly uncomfortable ruse to keep up with, however. Really, hiding the results of an investigation? Gregson is fairly certain that's three kinds of illegal, but since when did he care about legality when justice was at stake?

He steps into his office and shut the door behind him, the room pitch dark all around. Gregson slowly makes his way over to his desk and finds the gas lamp, turning it up slowly and watching a dim, yellow glow spread across the room.

Right, good, to work. He removes a key from the inside pocket of his jacket and bends to open the bottom-most drawer of his desk, where he's hidden all papers pertinent to the current investigation. Hardly a safe, yes, but it'll do for now, until he can afford to move them someplace—

_Click._

Gregson snaps his head up and glances around. "Who's there?" he snaps, slipping the key back into his pocket. "I say, who—"

A cold, hard pressure materializes on the back of his head.

"Mr. Gregson," a wheedling voice rasps. "I do believe I haven't had the pleasure. Allow me to introduce myself. I work for the man you've been trying _so hard_ to unearth."

"Wait—"

There's a clink, a pistol cocking—Gregson can feel the minute vibrations being conducted by his skull—and then the barrel twists into Gregson's scalp.

"Mr. Gregson. Cooperate, and you may make it through the evening with your brain intact. Resist, and I can see to it that the fish in the Thames will have a very lovely meal before the day is out.

"Now. Where are the papers?"


	2. Chapter 2

_Thank you for all the lovely feedback. Another slow chapter, I'm afraid, but things will pick up soon._

_

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_

_**II.**_

_London  
__1887  
__-One Month Earlier_

The man is young and rather handsome, in a rakish sense of the word. Fine-boned and pale, with light, wispy hair that might once have been combed into some semblance of neatness.

Unfortunately for him, his corpse was stuffed rather haphazardly into the nearest empty beer barrel and left there to molder. It was fortuitous that several half-sober day laborers had stumbled in looking to steal a drink and instead stumbled across _him_.

Murder in a brewery. Well, whoever did it had to get points for originality.

"Do we have a name?" Gregson stands above the crumpled body and breathes slowly through his mouth. The smell is atrocious, truly atrocious. Nearby, two quaking young constables on their first homicide glance nervously at each other.

"N-not yet," one of them stammers. Doubtless, someone has been feeding them rumors about how terrifying Gregson is with the green recruits. True, he's no patience for inexperience, but that isn't an excuse for MacDonald to go around striking fear into the hearts of innocent, young constables.

"Well, go _find one_," he mutters, kneeling to closer inspect the body. No one has bothered closing the poor sod's eyes yet. Bright green and large, they stare blankly up at the ceiling. Gregson does his best to keep from looking too hard. What was it Lestrade was so fond of saying these days? _Don't get too personal with the victims; it never ends well._ Although how one can actually get personal with a corpse is… questionable. At best.

He runs one gloved hand over the fabric of the dead man's overcoat. Mediocre cloth, could've come from any tailor in the city. Corpse is wearing no wedding ring; too underweight for a married man anyhow.

The constables have returned, flush with victory.

"Someone saw him hanging around here a few days ago," one of them pants. "One of the deliverymen says this fellow kept at 'em with all sorts of questions."

Gregson frowns. "Questions, what questions?"

"Wanting to know delivery times, when the porter was sent out and where, that sort of thing."

Odd. Where they planning some sort of heist? On beer? Well, there's a first time for everything, especially in Gregson's line of work. He shrugs and nods towards the constables. "Good work," he grunts, relishing the small busts of surprise that spread across their faces. "Now, go find the owner. Tell him I need to speak to him."

Half an hour and a very angry old man later, and Gregson's prepared to stick his own head into the nearest barrel and leave it there.

"Young man," the owner is growling—Young man? Gregson's thirty-nine; it's been over a decade since someone's called him a iyoung man/i in any form of seriousness—"Young man, I've owned this here brewery for nearly forty-five years now, and this is the first time I've felt my property rights violated in such a manner! It's revolting is what it is, makes me sick."

The way he's carrying on, one would think he was the one who'd been murdered and stuffed in a beer barrel.

"Sir, we're simply trying to ascertain what happened here," Gregson says flatly, reciting the oft-rehearsed line yet again. Following the script. "Now, if you will cooperate, we shall be out your hair in no time. Once again: have you noticed any strange activity—"

"Your superiors will be hearing from me, sir!" the man croaks. "I refuse to participate in this sham!"

_Don't do it, Tobias. Strangling the old sod will get you nowhere. Don't do it._

He takes a deep breath, and puts on his kindest smile. "Of course, sir. Just a few simple questions and you'll be free to go, soon enough. Now." _For the third time._ "Have you noticed any suspicious behavior around here lately?"

The old man spits onto the cobblestone. Gregson is reminded all too clearly of his grandfather, (may he rest in peace, the mad blighter,) which is hardly a good thing. "No," the brewery owner is saying. "Just you bumblers. Honestly, it's bad for business, this."

"Any new laborers hired recently?"

"Ack. You think I worry about those petty things? I leave all that up to my son, thank you." He sneers condescendingly. "And before you ask, no, y' can't speak to him no matter how hard you want to; he's at home with his missus and children, which is where all God fearin' folk should be on Saturday mornings, when they're not bein' dragged out by the police."

He shoots Gregson a pointed stare. As if to say, _You could take a lesson from that, ye spawn o' Satan._

The hour is getting late. Doubtless the Yard is a mess at the moment, falling apart at the seams without his guiding hand. Gregson has no choice but to graciously concede defeat.

"Very good, sir," he grinds out through a clenched jaw; "Thank you for your assistance. Good day to you."

One more spiteful, "Pah!" from the old man and Gregson finally makes his escape down the narrow street, arm outstretched as he flags down a passing cab, leaving behind him the two green constables to clean up the mess.

**.**

"They've done it again."

_Splat._ Lestrade slams a copy of the _Express_ onto Gregson's desk.

"Done what?" Gregson mutters, without so much as a glance spared at the intrusion.

"Painted us as complete buffoons. Take a gander at the headline." Lestrade is red-faced and breathing raggedly, all symptoms of Taking the Media Far Too Seriously. Gregson sighs, dips his pen into his inkwell, and resumes writing.

"Well, Lestrade, insulting the police sells papers," he says. "What do you plan on doing? Writing them a harshly worded letter?"

"Humph. Well, I thought you'd be interested, seeing as they mentioned you personally."

Gregson's head snaps up at once. He grabs the paper and holds it up, eyes scanning it furiously. "That is abominable," he splutters. "Where'd they get all this drivel? It's not even fit for the tabloids; I thought the Express was supposed to be reputable!"

"It appears they found the fact that I was on the case as well a rather laughable matter," Lestrade says flatly.

"Why?" Gregson scoffs. "I realize the press enjoys poking thorns into your side—I do as well, as a matter of—"

"Well, they obviously think we're still rivals of some sort or another," Lestrade sighs, plunking a box onto Gregson's desk and opening it with one quick flick of the hand. "Honestly, I thought we'd put the whole ridiculous little feud behind us when we both got that promotion."

Gregson mutters something that would've made a sailor blush, before flicking his eyes at the carton. "What is that box doing on my desk?" he asks.

"I thought you wanted everything we had on the Renner family, what owns the brewery where they found that chap in a beer barrel."

"I did."

"Well, here are the files." With a small grunt, Lestrade removes a small mountain of papers from the case and sets them down in front of Gregson. "All sixty-three of them."

A strangled sound forms in the back of Gregson's throat. "Are you sure this is the same family?" he squeaks, pulling the top file down and opening it slowly.

Lestrade sighs. He doesn't like for his work to be questioned, least of all by his colleagues. Nevertheless, he leans back and recites, "Josiah Renner, fifty-seven, owns a beer brewery. Son, Matthew Renner, thirty-four, in line to inherit the business, married, three children—"

"Alright, alright, I get it, you've a filing cabinet for brains," Gregson mutters. "Quite a busy lot, aren't they?"

"Apparently a few years back they were suspected of financing the smuggling of goods up the Thames," Lestrade explains. "Set off quite the investigation."

"Anything come of it?"

"Bah. You know how these things go most of the time," Lestrade grunts. "A whole lot of circumstantial evidence and nothing concrete. They got off with slaps on the wrists."

"Sentences commuted, that sort of thing? I see." The clock has struck noon and a painfully familiar grumbling has started up in Gregson's stomach. The longer he stares at the files, the more they begin to look like a giant roast.

Lestrade is already on the other side of the room, one hand draped across the doorknob.

"Say, Geoffrey—"

"Do it yourself, Gregson; I'm starving."

The door slams shut. Gregson glares fiercely at the papers. The papers glare fiercely back.

"Bugger," he grunts, before opening the first file and beginning to read.

**.**

It is late in the day when Josiah Renner finally gets the last of the constables off of his property. He sends them away with one more string of swears and an angry shake of the fist. A whole day's profits, lost! Renner slams the door and pulls his whiskey flask from his coat pocket, methodically unscrewing the cap. Beer may be his trade, but he can't stand the stuff in terms of taste.

He hardly gets a mouthful of liquor down when there comes another knock on the door. Not the frantic banging of the police, no—simply three careful, measured thumps. He answers it with a crotchety, "What?"

"Good evening, Mr. Renner."

Renner freezes at the sight of his guest. "Oh. Oh, s' you!" he exclaims. "My apologies, sir, my apologies—can I get you a drink? Some beer?"

"I'm rather reluctant to partake anything that's been in such close proximity with a corpse," the visitor replies testily. Tall and elderly, dressed in fine, expensive togs. His face is sharp and angular, with a large mustache and heavy eyebrows, beneath which sit a pair of cunning, devilish eyes.

"Oh yes," Renner mumbles. "That. I'd nothing to do with it, I promise you."

"You'll excuse me if I find that rather hard to believe, Mr. Renner. You and your family are known for doing your business the dirty way." The visitor doffs his top hat and looks around. "I'm not here to tell you how to run your affairs, however," he says, cringing disdainfully as he spies a rat scurrying across the brewery floor. "I'm here to warn you."

"Warn… warn me?" Renner chuckles nervously and leans forward, shoulders raised. "Whatever about, my good sir?"

"That policeman that came around this morning," the visitor drawls. "Be wary of him. Not all the investigators at Scotland Yard are complete bumblers, and this one happens to know more than most."

Renner giggles, the warmth of the whiskey beginning to seep into his veins. "Oh, I'm not worried about _him_. Couldn't seem to tell which way was up. They didn't catch on last time; they most certainly won't now!"

"Hm." One large and bristly eyebrow is raised upon the stranger's face. "Very well, Mr. Renner. Deal with the issue as you see fit. But you can be assured, if things get too far out of hand, we _will_ be forced to cut all ties with you."

A shudder runs through Josiah Renner, from the tips of what's left of his snow-white hair to the turn-ups of his Savile Row trousers. "Oh, I do hope it doesn't come to that," he says, stumbling over his words. "It would be… It would be quite dreadful!"

"The feeling is mutual, I assure you," the stranger drawls, his voice lacking all semblance of sincerity. "Do take more care in disposing of your bodies in the future, Mr. Renner." He replaces his hat and turns for the door.

"Will that be all, Colonel?" Renner says.

"Yes, I believe so. Good day, Mr. Renner. And do pay heed to what I've told you."

The door clicks shut. Josiah Renner lets out a long sigh and quickly takes another swill from his whiskey flask, before racing off to the telegram office to send a wire to his son.

Things are about to start moving, whether they like it or not.


End file.
